It's hard to believe that this was me 8 years ago. Harder still to reconcile the photo on the right with the 8-YEAR-OLD who sat at the kitchen island this morning eating his birthday breakfast of marmite on toast.
It's funny, as each year passes, in some ways I feel less equipped to be a great parent. The early parenting initiation consisted of deciphering crying codes, applied first aid, and teaching those initial life lessons of fairness, disappointment, and submission to parental authority.
As he becomes more and more independent, the parenting gets less black and white. He has more questions - I don't have all the answers, and sometimes, there just aren't answers. He starts to see my flaws. It becomes more and more about showing him where and to Whom to go to find the answers, and helping him to ask the right questions.
OK, so this is deep, and he's only eight. But each year I have to let go a little more, and I treasure still and much those moments when he wants a cuddle, or wants to sit and do some art with his Mom. He doesn't need me to hold his hand anymore, but I will always hold his heart. And give thanks for the gift of my firstborn son.
